


History Never Repeats

by Luthien



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Historians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27207451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: There's only one thing Brienne detests more than the super popular reality show Race Thru Time - and that's its host, Jaime Lannister.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 52
Kudos: 120
Collections: Fandom For Australia





	History Never Repeats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DJL](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJL/gifts).



> DJL won me in the Fandom For Oz fundraising auction back in February, for victims of the terrible fires during the last Australian summer - and then 2020 really kicked into action and my plans were derailed. My apologies that it has taken so many months for this story to make an appearance. But now sit back: here we go!
> 
> If you recognise the title, you're probably about as old as I am. And yes, you're right, it's that song by Split Enz.

It takes Brienne less than thirty seconds to decide that she doesn't like Jaime Lannister.

Well, in truth, it's more like less than five.

She doesn't like his reputation, but that's only to be expected. No serious scholar can take a man in his line of work… well, _seriously_.

She doesn't like his flawless good looks, but that's just common sense. Brienne has learned to be wary of the self-regard of men not even half as good-looking.

And she doesn't like his obvious expectation that all lesser mortals—Brienne very much included—will fall over themselves to do exactly what he wants.

But most of all, she doesn't like his smile.

He turns it on her now, so brilliant that it's almost blinding, and she knows it for what it truly is: yes, it's a weapon, that smile.

Brienne doesn't smile back.

She _does_ shake his hand, because she has no real choice about it, and leads him over to the items on the table in the stacks that she prepared hours ago. Tall compactus shelving towers on either side. A dust mote dances in a beam of coloured light cast down from the mediaeval stained glass windows that circle the gallery, just below the domed ceiling that sweeps in a graceful arc high above.

This is Brienne's world, the one she knows, the one that lets her be comfortable with who and what she is. The one that enables her competence to shine, albeit where only few will ever see it, or even know of it. She's good, better than good, at what she does, and a perfect fit with her chosen environment.

Or, at least, she was a perfect fit. Until today.

She still can't quite believe she's doing this—the whole 'appearing and speaking on camera' part, anyway. Or the 'appearing and speaking on camera _with Jaime Lannister_ ' part, either. She loathed what she knew of him even before she came face to face with him, and loathes _Race Thru Time_ , the reality show he hosts, even more. It's the worst sort of trash, at least in Brienne's opinion, serving up sensationalist entertainment in the guise of historical "research" mixed with a Westeros-wide scavenger hunt. She can't really believe that so many people seem to enjoy it; the ratings for this season have been going through the roof—in the words of one TV critic who Brienne would have expected to be less easily impressed.

But then, what would she know? She's only a professional archivist who spends every day working with historical records.

She really, _really_ doesn't want to be here right now. She's not even supposed to be taking part in this… circus. It was meant to be her boss—who's usually the public face of the castle archives—but then Cate had called Brienne first thing this morning. One of Cate's young sons had fallen and injured himself, and remained unconscious. Cate couldn't leave his side at the hospital, but this opportunity to publicise the castle archives and the significant historical records in their holdings to such a huge audience was too important to pass up...

And so here they are, Brienne and Jaime Lannister: someone who cares about the historical record, about evidence of what really happened, about _truth_ , and someone who just wants to exploit those things for cheap entertainment. Never let the facts get in the way of a good story: that's probably his family motto.

"And what _fascinating_ historical document do you have to show to us, Brienne?" Jaime Lannister asks, and somehow he's still smiling as he says it, all bright, too-white teeth curved in a smile as sharp as his cheekbones. It's as if he's mocking her and everything she stands for.

Maybe he is.

Brienne stands straighter, making the most of her superior height—and reminding herself that it's far from the only way in which she's superior to him. She takes a deep breath, and begins:

"This deed is one of the oldest official records held here in the castle archives, demonstrating that House Tully was in possession of Riverrun almost eight hundred years ago."

"So this is the original document showing that House Tully was granted title to Riverrun from the king?" he says, leaning over the table and smoothing out the edge of the parchment with a cotton-gloved hand—and dislodging one of the soft weights that Brienne put there earlier to hold the title deed flat.

"Not exactly, Jaime," she says, through slightly clenched teeth, womanfully resisting the urge to push his hand away. "This is simply the oldest record we have relating to Tully ownership of Riverrun. Myth says that the family claimed the land and built the castle a thousand years before that, but of course there's no surviving written evidence to prove it."

"So, it's one of any number of rare historical treasures to be found in the archives here at Riverrun?" He accompanies the question with a speaking look—but Brienne's not sure what it's saying.

"I wouldn't phrase it that way. It's an irreplaceable primary source, certainly, just like everything else we hold here in the collection."

"That's absolutely _fascinating_ , Brienne." He switches the smile up a notch before it hardens into something else. He's no longer simply mocking her. "Cut!" he says, curtly, to the cameraman, and now there's no hiding his annoyance. He turns back to Brienne. "Do you think you could have made it any _more_ boring?" His tone is withering.

"I spoke about the record I was _asked_ to speak about," Brienne replies, bristling.

He looks her up and down, taking his time about it, and this look speaks even louder than the last one. This time, Brienne doesn't have to wonder what it means. She wills herself not to blush, but she can feel the heat rushing into her cheeks. She so hates being _seen_.

He must notice her discomfort, because the smile returns to his lips, and Brienne likes it even less than before, if that's possible.

"I was going to suggest that you try to jazz it up a bit, make it sexier, but…" He leaves the sentence hanging, his inference clear: she's boring, dull, un _sexy_.

Brienne clenches her hands, the fingers of her own cotton gloves disconcertingly soft against her palms, as she reminds herself that it isn't anything she hasn't heard before, and anyway: "Sex- _attractiveness_ isn't on most people's minds when they're conducting historical research."

He pauses a beat before replying, and-

_Don'tsayitdon'tsayitdon'tsayit_ Brienne thinks-

"That's abundantly clear," he says, eyes flicking over her face.

The utter bastard. Is he staring at her broken nose? Or her too-thick lips? Or is it just her skin, which must be glowing pink beneath her many freckles?

"But we're not conducting historical research," he continues. "This is television. _Entertainment_." It's as if he's explaining to a child, and a rather backward one at that.

"I'm aware of that," Brienne says tightly. _Backward. Slow._ That's how Ms Roelle, her nanny, had described her, back when Brienne had actually been a child. _She's just impossible, Mr Tarth. I can't do anything with her,_ she'd told Brienne's father right before she left, in obvious disgust, that last time.

"Then give me something _entertaining_ , something to capture the viewers' imaginations."

Brienne blinks, and she's back in the here and now. There are no children to be seen but just two professionals—Brienne and the cameraman, Peck—plus the travesty of professionalism that is Jaime Lannister.

He tries that smile on her again, though now it's more like a sneer—and that's _it_. That does it. He wants something that will capture people's imaginations? Brienne will damn well give it to him.

"How about the plans of the dungeons, then, including the one where it's claimed they held the notorious Kingslayer during the War of the Five Kings?" she asks, before she can think better of suggesting it. "That was before he lost his sword hand, of course, in less than ideal circumstances. He was a Lannister, they say. A relative of yours, perhaps?" Her voice is as cool as the freezing waters of the Tumblestone that flow just outside the castle.

The smile on his lips shifts subtly. It isn't mocking any more, and he's no longer using it as a weapon, either, though Brienne is more than aware that it could turn back into one at any second. There's amusement there, and curiosity and… yes, and a challenge. He's taken up the verbal gauntlet that she's just thrown down.

"Yes," he says, "in answer to both questions." He turns to Peck. "How long will it take to get everything packed up and ready to move?" he asks.

"Packed up?" Brienne feels as if she's missing something here. Something obvious. She's fired her shot and it's gone wide of the mark, while her adversary has effortlessly hit the bullseye.

Jaime Lannister shakes his head and _tsks_ at her.

And smiles.

"If we're going to look at the dungeon plans, then we're going to have to record this segment in the dungeon. Obviously."

"Obviously," Brienne echoes. But it's not obvious. It's not obvious at all. None of it.

It's as if the stone floor beneath her feet has turned to sand, and she's slipping, falling, where once she'd stood so confidently, so sure.

She's never felt so out of place.

~*~

"Mind your step. The floors are uneven down here," Brienne says to Peck— _not_ to Jaime Lannister—as she turns the huge, age-worn key in the lock and pushes open the cell's heavy, iron-bound oak door. The chill air hits her at once. Riverrun's dungeons are never warm even at the height of summer, but now, in early spring, they're cold and dank. And dark, of course. At any time of year, they're as completely lacking in natural light as an underground cave.

Brienne reaches for the light switch, and the fake oil lamps placed at intervals along the walls bathe the cell in dim yellow light.

"Cozy," Jaime Lannister observes, glancing around. There's a pallet covered by a rough grey wool blanket against the far wall. Beside it is a small, rickety desk and chair. In the corner is a covered wooden pail. The slate floor is strewn with bits of straw that crunch underfoot. There's no window, nor any other break in the walls apart from the door through which they've entered.

"We keep this cell set out much as it would have been when it was in use, centuries ago—to show the tour groups when this part of the castle is open to visitors during the warmer months, " Brienne explains. "Though of course the walls and floor wouldn't have been as well-scrubbed, and the smell would have been impossible to ignore, when the Kingslayer was held here." Her eyes stray to the bucket in the corner.

"The sweet smell of treachery," Jaime Lannister says, and that mocking smirk is on his lips again.

" _Everybody_ smelled in those days," Brienne snaps, doubly irritated that he can irritate her just by uttering a single sentence, "whether it was thanks to dirt and grime from honest work, or perfume to disguise the reek of an idle week's worth of sweat and general body odour."

"Or the stink of a year spent unwashed in the dark with only a bucket of your own shit for company."

Brienne throws him a surprised glance, not so much because he's worked out what the bucket was for, or deduced that prisoners were kept here alone and in the dark, but that he knows how long the Kingslayer spent in this dungeon. Brienne herself is only aware of details like that because she both works here and has an interest in the history of the castle. She wouldn't have expected Jaime Lannister to know anything about the Kingslayer beyond the fact that he's distantly related to the man. As he said before, he's all about _entertainment_ , not historical accuracy.

"Or that," she agrees, grudgingly. She turns to Peck. "I thought I'd lay out the dungeon plan on the table over there. Would that work, or would you prefer it if we moved it away from the wall?"

"I can manoeuvre better if the table's in the middle of the room, and I'll need space to set up the extra lighting—but Jaime has the final call on presentation," Peck says, casting him a surprisingly non-nervous glance—as if Jaime Lannister is not an utter nightmare to work with—and raising an eyebrow in question.

"Yes, the centre of the room is good," Jaime Lannister says easily.

And then everything descends into a small whirlwind of activity, with furniture being moved, and extra equipment brought in, while orders are barked out, and the make-up lady appears out of nowhere, flitting here and there as she makes sure that neither Brienne nor Jaime Lannister looks too shiny or washed out under the unforgiving glare of TV lights. Though, honestly, Brienne thinks, he is the opposite of washed out, decked out in a sharp suit in an unlikely shade of bright red with gold embroidered sleeves, paired with black shirt and tie. It is a combination as trashy as the show itself, and so a perfect fit for him.

At last Peck has camera and sound equipment ready and positioned to his satisfaction, and they're ready to start shooting the segment. Jaime Lannister stands in front of the cell door, and speaks directly at the camera, inviting the audience into "the murky and mysterious world of this ancient castle's dungeons, as we explore some of the equally murky and mysterious deeds rumoured to have taken place here in centuries past."

Brienne longs to correct him, to say that it's really only the dungeons themselves that are ancient—for certain values of 'ancient', anyway—and that most of the surviving parts of the castle are of a much more recent date. But this is _entertainment_. Fact has no place here. That Riverrun's history has been reduced to this leaves a sour taste in her mouth, and when it's her turn to speak she has to work not to greet the camera and the viewing audience with the derisive sneer and narrowed eyes that only Jaime Lannister truly deserves.

She answers his questions as clearly and succinctly as she can, trying her best to be entertaining, or at least not actually boring. She wishes she hadn't already used her best lines on Jaime Lannister before the camera started rolling. But then, she realises, there's nothing to stop her from re-using them. The audience won't be any the wiser that she's recycling the words.

Jaime Lannister opens his mouth to speak, no doubt intending to spout a few stock phrases and bring the segment to an end, but before he can get a word out, Brienne says, "And of course this was where the notorious Kingslayer, coincidentally another Jaime Lannister, was held prisoner during the War of the Five Kings, over six hundred years ago."

Jaime Lannister doesn't close his mouth. He doesn't even pause. "After a year in a room this size, with nothing to do and no one much to talk to, and nothing but the absolutely most basic necessities to keep him alive, I don't blame him at all for escaping."

Brienne is looking right at him, so she sees what the camera doesn't: the split second in which he mentally pivots, slipping gracefully from his planned comments to make that smooth reply, as if it's what he intended all along. Little as she wants to, she has to admit that Jaime Lannister is good at what he does. This aspect of it, anyway.

"The Maid of Tarth helped him to escape, I believe," he continues. "You're a Tarth, aren't you, Brienne? Not a relative, I hope?"

Brienne stands there, neither smooth nor graceful, but she doesn't have to stop and think about what to say, either. "That's one version of what happened, but not the only one. There aren't very many official records surviving from this period for obvious reasons-"

"Dragonfire?" Jaime Lannister suggests, and it's Brienne's turn to send him a withering look.

" _Wild_ fire. Castles and everything in them being destroyed in the course of years of unceasing war tends to have a lasting negative effect on the historical record. And then there's the fact that there weren't very many records created in the first place. Paper of the time was of relatively good quality—much better lasting than most paper produced today—and vellum, the best sort of parchment, even more so, but both were expensive, and literacy was not widespread beyond the nobility and the maesters. This was before the advent of the printing press, remember. So we know few personal details about most of the people who lived at that time-"

"A nickname like 'kingslayer' tells us quite a bit, though. And 'maid'."

"The term 'maiden' simply means a young, unmarried woman, usually well-born," Brienne says, reminding herself not to clench her teeth. "The Maid of Tarth was certainly that. She was the daughter of Selwyn, the Evenstar of Tarth. There's also some evidence to show that she was an accomplished fighter, and possibly an actual knight, sworn to the service of Lady Catelyn Stark, who was born a Tully here at Riverrun, and that it was Lady Catelyn who charged her with returning the Kingslayer-"

"Jaime Lannister," his namesake puts in helpfully.

"... returning _the Kingslayer_ to King's Landing in exchange for the freedom of her daughters. Lady Catelyn's daughters, I mean."

"I'm glad you cleared that up. It really wouldn't have done for a _maiden_ to be a mother, particularly of more than one daughter, would it?"

"In which case, she wouldn't have been a maiden any longer," Brienne says in as level a voice as she can muster. "And yes." She relishes the tiny frown of confusion that creases his brows then. She's managed to throw him off-balance, even if it's only for a second, echoing his answer to her question from before.

"Yes…" he prompts, waving his hand to indicate that she should continue.

"Yes, I'm a relative of the Maid of Tarth. A very distant one, obviously, but I'm proud of the connection." _And you don't have any reason to be proud of your connection to the Kingslayer_ , she doesn't say, but also doesn't try to hide that she's thinking it.

Their eyes meet, but Jaime Lannister says nothing in response. Instead, he turns to the camera and tells the audience, "And yet again this proves that if you want to build up a picture of an ancestor, it's always better to have one who was well-known, even notorious, in their lifetime, and left their mark on the historical record, rather than the sort who led dull, blameless lives. And speaking of which, it's time to say goodbye to our hosts here at the Riverrun castle archives and return to our contestants, who are on the trail of a historic conflict—and lost treasure!" He flashes that million golden dragon grin at the camera and holds it for the space of a breath, two breaths, three and-

"Cut!" says a voice, but this time it's not Jaime Lannister's. A tall, lean man wearing jeans and t-shirt, and with long russet-coloured hair pulled back in a ponytail, is slouching against the doorframe, watching them. He doesn't look as if he should be ordering anybody about, but the note of practised command in his voice is unmistakable. Behind him, Podrick, Brienne's records assistant, shifts from one foot to the other, uncertain.

At the sight of the stranger, Jaime Lannister's face relaxes into something that's still a smile, but shockingly genuine. "Addam! It's about time."

"Did you think I'd leave you to freelance for a second longer than I had to?" the man, Addam, asks mock-sternly as he comes over to join them. "I'm Addam Marbrand, the director and co-producer of _Race Thru Time_." He ignores Jaime Lannister's sardonic, "Yes, I believe we've met," and looks inquiringly at Brienne. "You're not Cate Stark."

Brienne shakes her head. "Cate's my boss, but she couldn't be here today—a family emergency—so I had to take her place."

"Not bad for a last minute replacement. Not bad at all. Filming in the dungeon with the actual plan was a great touch, Ms… Tarth, is it?"

Brienne flushes. "Yes, Brienne Tarth, senior archivist," she mutters, belatedly introducing herself as she takes the hand Addam offers in a firm grip and shakes it. She's off her game, still smarting from that crack of Jaime Lannister's about people who lead dull, blameless lives. How in the seven hells would he know whether her life is dull or blameless, anyway? Does he think that the professional face she just presented to the camera is all there is to her?

"Actually, filming in the dungeon was my idea," Jaime Lannister puts in.

"But only after I suggested using the dungeon plan instead of the title deed," Brienne counters.

Addam looks from Brienne to Jaime Lannister and back again. "You two only just met today?" he asks.

"Yes, of course," Brienne says, frowning a little as she wonders what he's getting at.

"What?" Jaime Lannister asks Addam, and it seems he's having similar thoughts.

"Oh, nothing." Addam shrugs nonchalantly.

Jaime Lannister's eyes narrow. "What?" he asks again, his tone suddenly both silkier and somehow sharper.

"Nothing. Really!" Addam holds up his hands in an appeasing gesture. "I'll just be interested to watch the rushes of this segment back at the editing suite." He turns quickly back to Brienne. "The contestants will be arriving to start the shoot tomorrow. Will Ms Stark be back by then?"

Brienne shakes her head. "It's unlikely. But I was going to be in charge of setting everything up for the contestants anyway. The tables in the search room will be set out in the configuration you requested, and I've prepared all of the materials they should need, including copies of the earliest surviving maps of the riverlands."

"Good, good. Then all they have to do is use the clues we've planted in the countryside nearby to work out which maps they need—assuming they can find the clues, of course," Addam says, and his accompanying smile is wicked.

_As if the questions thrown up by historical research aren't enough of a puzzle and challenge in themselves_ , Brienne thinks, and her initial liking of Addam Marbrand dims.

"It sounds as if you have everything under control," he continues, "and now we've got that dungeon segment in the bag we're right on schedule."

"If we're finished here for today, Addam, why don't we go down to the town and look for a decent coffee," Jaime Lannister suggests. He sounds doubtful that 'decent' coffee is something they're likely to find in downtown Riverrun, but there's also a slight edge to his voice that tells Brienne that it's conversation— _private_ conversation—with Addam that he wants more than a caffeine hit.

Addam gives a little sigh of resignation, and says, "Okay. Maybe you can suggest somewhere, Brienne?"

"The Blackfish cafe down by the bridge," Brienne replies without hesitation.

She waits for Jaime Lannister to make some barbed little comment about her serving up fish when he wants coffee, but instead he just murmurs, "Of course," as Addam thanks her for the pointer.

"Podrick will take you back up to the entrance," Brienne says, with a quick glance at the doorway where Pod is waiting. He nods to show that he's been paying attention, and steps back to let the two men pass through.

"We'll see you tomorrow, first thing," Addam says to her. "Thanks for your help today." He sounds sincere about it, and Brienne can't help but warm to him again, a little.

"Yes, _thanks_ ," Jaime Lannister says. "It's been… memorable."

He smiles, _again_ , and Brienne is sure that it's the least sincere expression she's ever seen on anyone's face in her life.

The end of tomorrow can't come nearly quick enough.

**Author's Note:**

> The rating will increase before we're done, and I'll add more tags as the story unfolds...
> 
> ETA: A teensy ficlet retelling the very end of Chapter 1 from Addam's POV can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21228110/chapters/66997717).


End file.
